


Greensleeves

by rotrude



Series: Greensleeves [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Tudor Era, Deceit, Dubious Consent, Implied Incest, Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2019-06-21 08:05:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15553299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Darkish Tudor AU where Merlin is a little bit of an Anne Boleyn, Arthur is a very sane version of Henry VIII and magic vaguely resembles Protestantism. In a Tudor-like court betrayal reigns supreme and plots are hatched.





	Greensleeves

He meets him as he holds court at Richmond one dark afternoon, an annoyed retinue circling him like birds of prey. Sunlight, the sun itself having disappeared behind a blanket of heavy clouds hours ago, is no longer filtering through the mullioned windows. The crowd is gaudy: rich multicoloured dresses swirl around during a dance as if they had a will of their own; the finest silks and embroideries are on display. Jewels that catch the light are there to be beheld by secret admirers, lovers, idlers and the king himself. The fingers of the ladies of the court are cumbered with sapphire and opal rings that are twinkling and glimmering in the flambeaux' lights.

He, the boy, is from the country, that is clear. He is blue eyes and a lithe body encased in a green jerkin. He has soft hands, tapering fingers drowned by the long sleeves of his courtly apparel, which is made of fine velvet; it looks too big for his frame and is clearly a hand-me-down. He is a shock of dark hair, curling at the nape of the neck, boyish still in a way that reminds Arthur of his own life a scant few years back. Intriguing. The young man looks vital and sparkling, gentle and innocent: a rare sight.

“Who is he?” he asks of Owain, his chief advisor.

“Lord Balinor's illegitimate offspring,” Owain whispers in the king's ear. “Or that is the rumour circulating, my lord.”

Arthur nods, and downs his sweet wine, German wine, expensive, imported wine. They say it tastes of the Moselle and of the earth from which the vineyards in the Emperor's lands spring.

Arthur watches. The king watches him.

He's soft smiles and a softer mouth. He, Lord Balinor's alleged son, dances a reel with the Lady Morgana, flits down the hall, here and there, looking flabbergasted by the opulence of the court, eyes wide and wonder filled. The boy doesn't exchange a word with the notables. He keeps to himself and appears to know only few people. He's silence in a corner. He's blue eyes, and a lithe body and a soft smile. A riddle, an enigma. He has some grace of the coltish sort, of the untried variety: it speaks of bales of hay and stretches of not yet enclosed land, hedges and parkland: the gentle green of England's rolling hills.

Arthur watches. The king watches him.

And the boy lifts his eyes and catches the king at it. Dips his head, the youth does, and from across the span of the whole hall, an expanse of polished, lacquered wood, King Arthur is entranced.

Arthur watches. The king watches him.

They orbit around one another.

The idle chatter of court fills Arthur's ears:

[The Lady Nimueh has taken Alvarr, the Earl of Lancaster, for a lover.  
Owain, Lord Privy Seal, is begging favours of his king. The old one would have sent him to the Tower, they say.  
Who's bedding whom?  
What illicit pleasures?  
Lovers, husbands, wives, loyal and disloyal, dissolution between the sheets.  
Who's betraying whom?  
The old king -- the old king had an illegitimate daughter, letters, a secret correspondence, hiding.]

 

Arthur corners the young man before the feast is over.

“Your name?” That is a hot murmur in the boy's ears.

A blush.

“Sire?”

“Your name. You must have a name.”

A look. A smile, a dimple showing. Sparkling eyes. “Indeed, my Lord.”

“Your name?”

“It's a humble name.”

 

**** 

 

A week later and he's still there, though Arthur hasn't learnt his name yet. The young unknown drifts about at court, and bows his head when required, though there is a mischievous twinkle in his eye that spices Arthur's blood and makes his senses reel. He sees him during the rites of the religion his father, King Uther, winner of Bosworth fields, established, and the boy is silent throughout, kneeling on a pew, not saying the words of the ritual but meekly following it because he can't be caught dissenting. And Arthur pays little to no attention to the rites himself, preferring to study the boy now and then, the boy whose name he still doesn't know. He could ask; of course he could ask. Informers, advisers, bootlickers: they all would softly, gently, venomously provide a name. But this is Arthur's game. 

The boy is Greensleeves to him. That's the name Arthur has dubbed him with and it might be fantastical but it sparks feelings in Arthur; evokes memories of that first day in Richmond, so he will use it. 

Kingly robes shed at night, Arthur thinks of him, of kissing Greensleeves' neck and back, his lips travelling down the young man's spine. The king dreams of taking him on his royal bed, on silk sheets that would glide down long, pale legs like a lover's caress. He'll find out the name from Greensleeves' own lips -- when he beds him.

Arthur corners him again in an alcove a few days later. Presses him against the wainscoting; Arthur's body flush against the young man's. He lowers his head a little so he can catch his scent. It's sharp and fresh. Sweet youth.

“Lie with me.”

“No!” Vehement, offended.

“I'm the king.”

“I said no, your majesty!” Greensleeves looks frail and fragile as he prepares himself for some form of aggression. But Arthur is chivalry personified, though he craves the mock fight, the battle before the capitulation. He won't take him, if the boy insists on denying him. He'll wait. He'll wait for the young man to be seduced into the king's bed. But Arthur desires and craves, so he insists at least a little, verbally.“You can't cast me off so discourteously. You know who I am. You knew me.”

“The king. The King of England.”

“The King of England,” Arthur mouths against Greensleeves' neck.

The boy stiffens, pushes him away. Arthur lets go of him.

“My lord,” he mutters. “I won't be one of your famed conquests. You have a lawful wife.”

There's a rustling of silk in the corridor, footfalls. Someone shushing someone else. Arthur is so enticed by the boy that he doesn't care if he's caught kissing him or even debauching him. He craves to learn the taste of Greensleeves' mouth, of his skin, of his sweat. Arthur imagines him thrashing under him and and he can't stop his body from reacting to the image that presents itself to his mind's eye as vividly as if it were real. Blood rushes more quickly; his heart thumps.

“You have enraptured me!” Arthur tells him. “You have enraptured me...Tell me what you want and it shall be yours.”

“No, my lord,” Greensleeves chides him. “No.” He fights free, adjusting his doublet as he distances himself from king and alcove. “No, Your Majesty.”

“Your name then?” Arthur pleads, he's so taken.

“No, if you knew; you'd know where to find me.”

“I could know: have the palace guards cast you in the dankest and darkest cell there is in this castle till you tell me. I could promise any courtesan a horse and, for a palfrey, she'd give me your name.”

“That is still a “no”, your majesty.”

“But I won't do any of those things: I want your name from your lips.”

The boy shakes his head, though he looks relieved when he hears Arthur acknowledge that the king won't use his prerogative to wrest a name from him. He seems grateful for a brief, fleeting while. Arthur watches him slink down a corridor next, blood afire with want. Can this be what unrequited passion feels like?

So Arthur watches him.

 

**** 

 

“The king has taken a fancy,” Morgause tells Morgana one night. They're in Morgause's apartment sharing wine and conversation, hearty blaze crackling in the fireplace, maids dismissed. They're sitting at opposing ends of a long mahogany table that dominates the ante-room opening onto Morgause's bedroom. Her four-poster is clearly visible from where Morgana is sitting, holding herself upright like a proud dame of old in a throne-like chair.

“He's enjoyed many a body. It matters little,” Morgana replies haughtily. Her step-brother's antics are well known and since his marriage to Queen Vivian was political, Morgana has never given that consideration too much thought. Arthur had the honesty to be upfront about it. An heir; they had to produce an heir and he and Vivian could be allies against the whole court.

Morgana isn't intimate with Vivian. They're not truly friends although their public displays of tolerance and affection have often enchanted courtiers. It's strange, people gossip, that a staunch defender of Uther's religion such as Vivian should humour the Lady Morgana, who might have abjured but had once been a follower of the old religion because of her mother. But Morgana knows how to dabble in politics and she has the protection of the new king just as she'd once enjoyed that of the old. After all she'd been the old king's ward and she and Arthur have known each other since childhood, ever since Uther had promised to take Morgana in and raise her as his own upon her becoming an orphan. Arthur and Morgana could share a brotherly allegiance; she'd more than saved herself from the speculation and mistrust her name used to inspire, because she'd promised Arthur her fealty even before Uther died. She's thus far quelled the mistrust her name naturally evokes by association.

Morgause laughs. “To one of our persuasion.”

Morgana's attention is caught.

“That is... He can't know, can he? He's faithful to Uther's abjuration of magic.”

“And yet he is in lust with a Dragon tamer's son,” Morgause rejoins, drinking her wine from an ornate goblet. “Arthur doesn't know who he is but--”

Morgana wants to throw her own goblet into the fire, but refrains. She frowns instead. “I thought he had no double standards; I had to... Publicly.”

Morgause looks Morgana in the eye. She is a fierce woman most of the time but towards Morgana she's always been generous. Morgause rises from her seat and undoes the bun that keeps her fall of spun-gold hair demurely constricted. “Don't take it personally, Morgana,” she cautions. “Let us be wise for once. Let us not choose instinctively. If he falls for the boy and the boy is one of us, then to have him he might...”

Light dawns. Morgana squints for a second and thinks it through.

“Consider,” Morgause argues, coming to kneel by Morgana's chair and placing her hand on Morgana's leg. “Consider, please.” Morgause lets her hand travel up Morgana's leg, silk gown rippling under her fingertips. “How things may change for us; how, if this succeeds, you'll be able to speak your mind openly once again.” Morgause's hand travels a little further up and soon it comes to tease the space between Moragana's legs, pushing the material of the fine dress the king's sister is wearing up so that she can stimulate her with her fingers.

Morgana has to chew her lip so as not to moan when she hears Morgause say, “Seduce the boy, tell him what he needs to do to serve magic and the old religion. He will do as we suggest. I've heard he's very loyal and powerful in the ways of the old cult. His family was destroyed by Uther's purge... I have investigated. He will do what we ask of him for the love of the family he lost to King Uther.”

Morgause's hand retreats, hovers, then presses again, causing Morgana to buck into it. Morgause's hand moves away, granting a respite that was never sought for, then she glides it once more over Morgana's dress.

“He will do what we tell him; he has no reason to side with Uther's followers and his religion. It has only given him pain.”

Morgana's legs part ever so slightly to encourage Morgause, while she wonders how the woman can keep so collected while pleasuring someone else, while she is taking part in these carnal pleasures. Morgana doesn't care; she wants this friend, her support, her gentle, caring touch. She's the only one.

“Yes, I'll win him over,” Morgana hisses, remembering the privations and the fear she lived with as the young ward of Uther Pendragon. The rest of her words are drowned in a kiss. 

A plan is hatched.

 

**** 

 

He sees Greensleeves again on the first day of the month of February. Arthur is taking a walk through the royal gardens, assiduous retinue following a few paces behind, when he spots the same ill-fitting jerking from a distance. What is more surprising is that Greensleeves is accompanied by the Lady Guinevere, Morgana's first Lady in Waiting. 

The pale winter sun hits the frost bitten blades of grass, making them look a translucent pale grey. They should be green, but right now green is merely the colour of Arthur's jealousy and Greensleeves' jacket.

Nobody retains their innocence at court; nobody ever manages to cling to their virtue when all there is around is coyness, flirtatiousness, lust: cut of clothes that reveal a hint of bosom in a woman, the shapely turn of a leg in a young man. The court is lust and lust is the court; a rarely sated craving that is never quite fulfilled even when orgies and debauchery are indulged in, however many moans are suppressed and drowned in the sheets of a stately canopied bed.

Pleasure seeking hedonists are these courtiers, passion hunting sensualists who scheme and love intrigue and ratify it with the seal of their bodies; season it with the salt of their skins. They trade in kisses. They trade in sex and deceit.

So why shouldn't Greensleeves have found a lover? Who could be so innocent as not to have sated themselves in the arms of one? Guinevere is beautiful and her eyes are soft. He can see where the attraction would lie. He can imagine them kissing: he can imagine them naked and tangled together and the thought is erotic and maddening. The grass is not quite green.

Jealousy is the petty monster that makes Arthur march forwards and intercept the sauntering duo by a stooping willow tree, cascading branches the same colour as Greensleeves' jerkin.

The Lady Guinevere curtsies and says, “Your majesty,” not quite meeting Arthur's eyes.

Greensleeves keeps silent.

“Well met,” Arthur greets them and the boy smiles at him for the first time in a very long while. It's curiously exhilarating, as if there already is a special code between them and that smile is a recognition of mutual interest. There is something about this man that Arthur, king and politician, can't quite make out. Once, in his misguided, ignorant youth, he'd have thought Greensleeves a simpering idiot, a country boy who's earned his place at court by being affable and charming in a way that is bound to divert the jaded minds of those who have experienced everything. Now he recognises a special soul he feels drawn to. Maybe he feels that way because Greensleeves hasn't bowed to him – neither literally nor metaphorically. It takes a defiant and staunch heart to say no to the advances of the most powerful man in the realm. 

“What brings you to court today?” Arthur asks, wanting to sound that connection. “I thought you wouldn't like the environment since you're used to the simplicity of the country.” There is maybe a hint of superciliousness in Arthur's words. He's being the condescending aristocrat who finds the countryside an endless stock of mocking material, the birth place of boors. Arthur is aware that he shouldn't have couched his question exactly that way, but he still has that unruly youth within, the one who took his own elevation and position for granted, the one he can't always silence even now, when he has a crown on his head and the responsibility that goes with it.

Surprisingly it's Gwen who answers. “The Lady Morgana asked me to introduce M--”

“Pray,” Arthur interrupts her. “This gentleman and I have a pact. He will tell me his name himself when he wishes to.” The name has no value till it is freely offered and there's no victory in extracting it from Guinevere, who, despite her social role and standing, has never stooped to playing games. She is a singularly fortifying island of serenity in the stormy sea of politics. 

Thanks to that line, Arthur wins another fresh smile, more of a full boyish grin, from Greensleeves and counts himself satisfied for today.

“Tell me, Guinevere, are you taking delight in this damp day?” His voice is an octave higher that he intended it to be, but he's suddenly manically happy. 

“No, my lord, but the Lady Morgana wished me to introduce my new friend,” she says, taking Greensleeves's hand in hers quickly and soon after releasing it, “to our usual pastimes.”

“So your friend has won the favour of my sister,” Arthur remarks, wondering if Morgana has set her sight on Greensleeves too. She could well have. She likes earnest, wide eyed people generally.

Greenaleeves inclines his head a little to the side. It's self deprecatory, Arthur assumes, and there's a hint of something else as well behind the gesture, but Arthur is damned if he can fathom what, because he's never been good at reading subtleties. He prefers the battlefield and the forced marches, the clatter of swords and the frantic beat of hooves to the tedium of diplomacy and guessing what goes on in the minds of those who surround him. He's had to learn the hard way that not everything is as it seems, and when he fails to perform that kind of magic, the fact that he's a victorious king, son of a victorious father, who's built a dynasty out of chaos, save him from having to be more proficient at reading men.

“Well, don't let Morgana eat you alive,” he cautions, only half jokingly.

There is a glint of something in Greensleeves eyes that soon disappears.

“Well then,” Arthur adds, out of words and a reason to linger when a dozen noblemen and women are clamouring for his ear and his time.“I have no doubt I'll see you again.”

Guinevere readies herself to curtsy again as is the court's custom, when Merlin interrupts her by placing a hand on her elbow. Gwen gathers the folds of her splendid gown in her hands, looks sideways at Greensleeves, in a way that Arthur is sure is supposed to be significant, and walks quietly away.

They're alone in the midst of the crowd now. They're alone underneath a tree, their feet planted on the dewy grass. There is a moment of silence between them that has the potential to stretch to infinity. Greensleeves exhales, nods to himself, bites his lower lip and then frowns for a second or two. Only then does he allow himself to smile again, the creases on his brow dissolving. He steps closer to Arthur, so close their chests are now brushing and murmurs softly, “Merlin.”

Arthur thinks in succession of the bird of prey, hawking, hunting and the irrelevance of all that when associated to their previous discussion, and gapes, unable to make out what Greensleeves is trying to say.

An amused, almost fond look and Greensleeves says, “You're not overly bright for a king, your majesty. That was my name.”

Arthur should be outraged. Nobody has ever addressed him like this, so insouciantly, so insolently, so defiantly – at least not without having been dispatched to the dungeons for a night of calm reflection. He should be angry and dismayed that this – this boy from who knows where – has dared call him an idiot to his face, but instead he feels a spark of human recognition there: the teasing that is a staple of the interactions typical of close acquaintances, friends even. He doesn't know or understand what that feels like since he's never had friends who were not his subjects first, but he remembers watching the friendly jibes of others like an outsider looking in. He's always suppressed the thought that maybe he would have wanted it for himself too, that feeling of belonging. What he says in the end is an act, a travesty of what he feels like. “I should send you to the Tower of London.”

For a second an ugly moue mars Merlin's face – Merlin his name is Merlin. That's when Merlin's fingers brush down his side. It's almost abrupt, but breathtaking. They're still so close nobody will be able to guess they're touching if they're seen and that is eminently good since Arthur is suddenly on fire, finds himself wanting to strain forwards and catch those lips with his own. He's desperately aching to fling himself at Merlin; he wants to grasp that hand and kiss its fingertips, sucking them into his mouth one by one. He vaguely remembers the concept of public decency, moderation, but how is one supposed to stop this burning?

The answer is simple: Merlin walks away, turning only once, no readable expression on his face.

Arthur watches him go. The king watches him.

**** 

 

The parade barges sail down a cold but placid Thames. It's the king's birthday; they're there to please him with their pomp and unrivalled splendour. The effort is wasted. The sun has even made an appearance and the brackish green of the river appears golden when bathed in its early morning light. It should be gorgeous. It should be one of those sights to put down in the annals of the kingdom. Sixty boats are floating down and past his vantage point, nobles gathered close to the riverbanks to watch as the little vessels parade on, while the commoners, who are kept separated from the aristocrats, marvel at the riches and the ornaments and the beauty. The king is not entertained. This area of London is supposed to look like a little Venice of the north today, a way of saying that England's court comes second to none in splendour. The show is as much for the mass of foreign dignitaries and ambassadors, who for one reason or another are currently residing in the capital, ready to report back about the apparent state of the king's coffers, as for the natives. Spies and diplomats should be wondering how Arthur can afford such lavish displays. If it works, those same foreign spies should write back saying that England's flourishing under Arthur's rule. This is supposed to be a mere birthday whim. And yet Arthur wishes this day was over.

“Happy birthday, my lord.” The barges might sink, the dresses the ladies of the court are wearing might collectively catch fire, the river itself could dry out anomalously, and Arthur wouldn't care right then. The sun is glistening brightly now and Arthur looks up.

“I thank you. So it has not escaped you,” he says.

 

There's a chuckle. “How could it have?” Merlin asks, pointing at the assembled populace all collected in one place to catch a glimpse of the splendidly be-robed monarch, who, today, is even wearing his crown on his head, that universal symbol that instils awe in the simple minded. They're all there to celebrate his birthday.

“I thought you would not be the type to notice.”

“It's a little bit magnificent,” Merlin says simply and Arthur finds himself suddenly curious to learn more about him. The day becomes brighter; Arthur's mood lifts, ennui forgotten.

“Never seen anything like this, have you?” he asks of the still standing Merlin. Arthur feels tempted to ask him to take a seat, but it'd be an untold breach of protocol.

“No,” Merlin answers guilelessly. Most in his place would pretend to be worldly and blasé, as if all the riches a crown could command were nothing to them. Not Merlin.

“You really spent the whole of your youth in the country then?”

Merlin takes a look around, evidently impressed with all that is going on before his eyes. The breeze plays with his hair and he laughs low and warm in his throat. “You say that as if it was heresy.”

“I have estates in the country.”

“I never doubted it, Sire.”

“And, I've always found the greenery boring. I love hunting though.”

Merlin wrinkles his nose in distaste. “A bloodthirsty sport.”

“A noble sport.”

“I know little of nobility.”

Arthur inhales. Illegitimacy is another thing that is not so openly acknowledged in courtly circles. It is something to be concealed and people who are born under its sign struggle all their life long with the stigma. Merlin says nothing, probably aware of what he's said. Arthur is trying to imagine that life: the privations, the scorn, the lies.

“Your father didn't acknowledge you?” Arthur blurts out. He's asked worse of people. He's asked them to sacrifice themselves for the common weal in battle, he's asked them to renege their vows to uphold the old religion and he's asked them to bow to him when pride would forbid it, but he's never feared to wound as he does right now. Merlin, predictably, stiffens. He blinks, as if to chase away the hint of tears. He hunches in on himself and looks away, seemingly rapt by a little golden boat that glides swiftly along, oars like a centipede's little legs. 

“He couldn't,” Merlin answers after what seems like a very long while. “He just... couldn't. I--” He suddenly shakes himself and brightens up considerably, making Arthur's heart somersault in his chest. Merlin says, “My mother, though, is a very good and honest woman and she never left me wanting for anything. I had a... relatively happy childhood. So I'm very partial to the country.”

Arthur makes a mental note to award him a title and an estate there, where Merlin chooses it to be, be it Derbyshire or Devon, Somerset or Kent, matters little. But he won't tell him yet, because he wants to keep Merlin as close as possible. He wants to touch that little bit of unexpected mystery that is Merlin.

“And the court? How do you find it?”

Merlin takes his time to consider. Arthur can read the hesitation on his brow and he can see how Merlin is trying to find the right words to express his thoughts.

Merlin looks ahead once again and then he starts speaking, voice coloured by a little genuine marvel. “Spectacular. So many people wanting so many different things all at once. Interesting people and clever ones. The buildings are beautiful and that's a little more than someone like me could have expected to see in, well, ever.” There's a pause and a soulful, earnest, “Terrifying, Sire.”

Arthur can only say, “You have my protection,” in return.

“You shouldn't offer things like that to me...” Merlin rebukes him and Arthur wants to laugh. Surely Merlin has not been the first to rise a little fast on the social ladder because he enjoys the favour of a king. So Arthur does laugh freely, throwing his head back, not caring that he's making a spectacle of himself and that his queen has taken to watching him closely as if he's a case-study in madness. This exhilaration, Arthur knows, is not madness. It's the unreasonableness of stirring feelings, mixed in with the early call of lust. It's the heady knowledge you come to when you capitulate to the fact that you're falling and don't want to stop because you like feeling the mad rush, the joy. It's vertigo incarnate; it's blood pumping twice as fast in your veins. It's the thrill of the chase combined with the carefree happiness of setting aside selfishness for an unnameable, barely reachable other.

“I'm the king: I can offer you what I want.”

“You can't buy me. You know that, don't you?”

Arthur shrugs. He likes it better like this even. Something a little out of the usual boundaries of a soulless affair.

“I'm not in this for money or favours,” Merlin says, daring to place a hand on the king's shoulders uninvited.

Morgana, bless her, covers for Arthur by engaging a few noblemen in conversation, the same men whose eye Arthur has caught by entertaining a parvenu they might think a social climber. It's a deft move on her part, but then again Morgana has always been subtle and quite clever.

“Then you're admitting you're in this, as you define it, because of me.”

“Arthur,” is the only answer he gets.

And Arthur watches him and keeps him close all day long.

**** 

 

“Come in, please,” Arthur says. He's in his shirt, which is half-undone, and it's clear from his state of undress that this is a private conference. It should make things easier and Arthur is not above a little flirting himself; he knows that the surprise of finding the king is a mortal man possessing a few decent attributes can often unglue a recalcitrant aspiring lover, although, more often than not he has to fend them off more than lure them in.

Merlin's eyes widen comically ; the puzzled expression he's wearing would make Arthur think he is a total innocent, even more than his origin and youth should warrant. Green is Greensleeves, it would seem.

“A page said you wanted to...”

“See you, yes. Pray take a seat, have some wine. You seem rooted to the spot, but I bet your limbs can still move.”

“You're teasing me,” Merlin concludes, narrowing his eyes. He clenches his jaw and twiddles his fingers as if he's considering, but he does eventually budge. He doesn't touch the wine decanter, but he sits down just as Arthur starts pacing up and down.

“I find your lack of social graces very entertaining.”

Merlin visibly bristles, balls his left hand into a fist before recovering a little by smiling a rather wan smile. He plasters on one that is partly forced and partly real. “I thought you wanted me to be your...”

“One does not exclude the other and I thought you quite capable of defending yourself.”

This time Arthur wrests a smile, one that breaks free from Merlin. 

“Have you changed your mind?” Arthur asks.

Merlin rises from his chair, stalks up to Arthur, though the dashing move turns out to be less dashing because he starts to dance on the balls of his feet, and says, “No. I haven't.” 

Arthur's heart sinks and his hopes plummet. He'd been so sure. Accepting to come here has to have been a deliberate choice, hasn't it?

“Honestly?” Merlin queries. “I still think what I thought the other day.”

Arthur nods.

Merlin kisses him, his lips a contradiction.

It's a contradiction that is so sweet, Arthur can't put a stop to it. Merlin bites Arthur's lips, licks them and dives inside a little too quickly, a little too roughly. It's a messy kiss, a wet kiss, an aggressive kiss, all fire and determination, brutal force and artless invasion. It's the kiss of someone whose lips haven't touched many others: it's the kiss of someone who's trying their best to please, entice, excite. A little too much. And Arthur could push him away or turn this into what he himself specifically wants, but he curbs his desire to orchestrate the whole because he wants this man, and he wants him to kiss the way Merlin does, the way he longs to. He wants Merlin and not a parody of him or a fantasy of him. 

Merlin is breathing fast through his nose; his chest is rising and falling just as quickly against Arthur's own, though he hasn't closed his eyes. To direct the kiss, Merlin grabs hold of the king's shoulder, articulating spindly fingers as he does so, clutching the velvety fabric desperately. Merlin angles him, and it, the kiss, becomes a sort of frantic lapping and sucking, tongues twisting, curling and meeting each other that leaves Merlin trembling like a weather vane in a gale. 

Arthur finally snaps out of it, this confused stupor that had him reacting slowly, and he wraps his arms around Merlin, so that he can place a hand on the small of Merlin's back where the damned jerkin meets his maroon breeches. He reels Merlin in: Arthur's arms are encompassing him and it's good, it's splendid, better than he thought it would be. The reality of this is that all his expectations have been far surpassed, that his wanting and lust haven't been erased by the act itself. He wants more if not less and it's not the magic of the chase that makes him lust but the softness of those lips, the warmth of that mouth, the quick pants and rapid breathing. He wants Merlin. It's as simple as that.

Then Merlin withdraws. They stare at each other, Merlin looking both determined and shocked. Arthur inclines his head and strives forward to steal another kiss, be it as involved and crazy as the last one or a gentler buss, but Merlin backs away. He looks wild; his cheeks are stained red and his pupils have dilated. He's gaping and his focus is on Arthur's lips. 

Arthur thinks him delectable; thinks him perfect. His hands slide up along Merlin's side, a sort of caress through clothes. He tries to draw Merlin to him and he bends his head to kiss Merlin's long neck. He touches his open lips to the skin there, breathes into it and then his teeth close on it for a gentle nip he means to soothe away with another kiss. Arthur is aroused now, incredibly so. And it's out of this world because Arthur, as the much sought after king, has seen and done everything between the sheets and yet nothing has sent his heart a-flutter and his body on fire quite like this – not after a few kisses that were far from perfect. But the truth is that Arthur would like to strip Merlin and kiss him all over and then he would like to bed him without a second thought. He finds he's eager to do just that when Merlin slides half out of his embrace. 

Merlin swallows, smiles ineffectively and tries to speak, though he's certainly blushing furiously. This is a different Merlin from the one who's just kissed Arthur as if it was an assault and Arthur can't help but think Merlin's actions confusing.

“I've never had a man,” Merlin blurts out. Realising the meaning of what he's just said, Merlin is quick to qualify that statement. “I'm not backing off; I'm not leading you by the nose. I'm...I will. Give me time, my lord.”

“You would disdain me?” Arthur asks gravely to see what will happen next.

Merlin doesn't look him in the eye; on the contrary he lowers his head and it's as if he's bracing himself. Arthur waits a second, wanting to grant him everything he would wish, when Merlin's hand moves to undo the clasp on his jerkin. He's about to strip.

Arthur grasps that hand, squeezes those graceful fingers and leans in to murmur. “When you want me as I do. When you can't stop yourself.”

Merlin's head whips up. He looks surprised, astounded and pleased. A smile forms on his lips and it's brilliant and toothy and provocative.  
“Thank you, My Lord. For once you're not displaying the manners of a selfish prat.”

“I could revive an ages' old institution called the stocks,” Arthur says, smiling back, even though he hasn't the faintest idea as to why he's smiling. His ardour has cooled off, yes, but if he could have what he craves he'd be pounding into Merlin right now; instead he's sidling closer like a shy maiden, smiling like a loon and asking permission to bestow a quick kiss on a jaw that should be his, would have been if it had belonged to any other person.

Merlin melts against him and his voice is light when he says, “Thank you.” 

Merlin walks right into his arms and if an outside observer had seen them, they would have said Merlin was embracing the king of his own volition and the king, an undemonstrative man when it wasn't about sex, was hugging him back.

 

**** 

 

“This is where I was born,” Arthur says, showing Merlin the lofty main salon of his Greenwich palace. The structure itself is grand but Arthur doesn't like it as much as his other residences. There's the spectre of his father's presence here; it's there in the choice of furniture, the lay-out of certain rooms and the mark the latest renovations have left. He can sense his father's shadow in the corridors and private chambers, in the halls and even in the outbuildings. It's generally considered beautiful though.

“Uhm,” is all Merlin says.

Arthur smiles. He shouldn't. There's Lancelot here, an old friend who's grown up by his side and yet is still a potential witness; there are the palace guards, who look like salt statues and yet are sentient human beings. There are witnesses and yet Arthur can't help smiling, teeth showing, as he seldom allows himself to do.

“Most people would have praised this place to the skies,” Arthur remarks softly, so that only Merlin can really hear.

“I guess they would,” Merlin tells him, casting appraising looks at the surroundings. “It's gloomy though. And impersonal,” Merlin adds as if he's trying to give the reasons why he's ill at ease.

“We can have jousts, banquets, whatever you like if you find that it's gloomy over here,” Arthur says. He feigns nonchalance but he's truly hesitant.

“That's not—” Merlin tries to object.

“Or a masque,” Arthur suggests, guessing it would please Merlin more. Merlin, from what Arthur has gathered on the basis of a relatively short acquaintance, doesn't have a martial bias and favours quieter pursuits. A masque would be far more entertaining for him than seeing swords clash. Arthur, on the other hand, would prefer watching noblemen tilt their lances in the lists, but he's trying to lure Greensleeves – make him happy – and a Masque by some great poet or other shall be commissioned.

It's Merlin's turn to laugh, only his laugh is not as boisterous as Arthur's was. It's quiet and a little high-pitched. The fantastic thing about Merlin's laugh is that it makes Merlin look more alive and alluring than he has a right to be. Thanks to it, Merlin's features morph into this quirky construction of light-hearted happiness: his eyes dance to the tune of a merry jig, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He emanates a pleased energy that makes Arthur want him even more.

“You are not subtle, my lord,” Merlin tells Arthur. “I'm a country bumpkin, as you would say, and even I can--”

“Morgana schemes. I prefer to stake a claim on what I want.”

“I like that about you,” Merlin murmurs pensively.

“Why,” Arthur jokes. “I'm flattered.”

“Arthur!”

“I like your sincerity,” Arthur says earnestly, devouring Merlin with his eyes. They can see. His audience can see how he watches Greensleeves with hunger. They must. 

“I'm just outspoken,” Merlin mumbles, “not...”

“But you couldn't behave differently, could you?”

“I'll say my piece, Arthur, but you like it because it's new. Stop liking it and you'll be better off, honestly.”

“I'll never quite stop liking you,” Arthur murmurs in Merlin's ear.

 

**** 

 

“So Muirden, you know Muirden,” Arthur says. “His father was an upholder of the old religion. And the man had the gall to come up to me and ask if I would like to appoint him court physician since Gaius is so old now that, and I'm quoting, to continue in office would be a strain on him,” Arthur tips his head back to rest it on the bed and laughs. He cranes his neck so that he can check Merlin's reaction from the corner of his eyes. They're both sitting – sprawling – on the floor at the foot of Arthur's canopied four-poster. Arthur has a goblet in his hand from which he's been intermittently sipping. Merlin is lying laxly there, doublet shed and thrown over a chair, shoeless, toes buried in a rich burgundy rug. His shirt is pristine white but still a home-spun. It's thin and Arthur can make out the movement of Merlin's muscles underneath the fabric, how they bunch and go rigid in response to Arthur's words. Arthur guesses he's said the wrong thing, because Merlin had been so mellow and relaxed before he spoke. There had been a quiet mirth about him, an unshakable little grin gracing his features, lighting them up.

Arthur is the king. Arthur is not used to being wrong because being king and being wrong are mutually exclusive. “What?” he probes.

Merlin looks away; his gaze darts here and there and he won't meet Arthur's concerned stare. “Nothing.” There's a pause and then Merlin turns around, planting an elbow on the bed as he asks, “What is so wrong with the old religion? People believed in it, before...”

“My father outlawed it.”

“I still...” Merlin begins.

“Enough,” Arthur spits, enraged for the first time since he met Merlin. “That's treason. What you are saying is treason. Magic is corrupt and evil. Everybody knows that.”

“Mmmm,” Merlin mumbles.

Nobody has ever dared broach the subject with Arthur, but then again Merlin is a pioneer. 

“It's just a belief,” Merlin continues, “and beliefs or even the full-fledged powers... They don't change who you are. They don't. And all this fear and silence and... I can't stand it.”

Arthur knows of course by now. Arthur knows what happened to Merlin's father, how he was sent to the Tower and had to flee and lost his rank and fortune. How he was made an exile. He guesses this is Merlin's not so subtle way of telling him. “It can't be allowed,” is what Arthur says, remembering his own father's words and lessons.

“Arthur... I just.”

“No, you don't. You don't speak to me like that.”

Merlin nods. His eyes narrow. He looks bitter and sad.

“I--”

“Don't say that,” Arthur warns Merlin, taking him in. He wants to trade the court's secrets with Merlin and he wants to laugh and possibly bicker with him. He's never had that from anyone else in his life and Merlin, Merlin whom he has not touched yet, is almost a friend if not an equal. His first friend, dare he say it. But he won't call his father into question. Not even for him.

“Merlin,” he exhales. It's almost a form of begging.

And Merlin moves. He comes to sit in Arthur's lap and they've always stopped short before; they have kissed and bantered and Merlin has promised he'd give of himself, but he's always been shy and this, coming from him, looks like a declaration of intent. A battle plan. 

Merlin grabs the hem of his own partially undone shirt, looks down at an astounded Arthur, who's grown impossibly hard in a few moments because of Merlin's weight on him, and pulls it off. Arthur has waited for so long that having it now feeds his desire and steals his reason away. Arthur places his hands on Merlin's hips, greets his teeth, thinks calming thoughts guaranteed to soothe him in any other circumstance and makes himself say, “Is this definitely what you want to do? Months and you've never...”

Merlin bends down, puts his large, spindly fingered hands on the sides of Arthur's face and bends down to kiss Arthur. Merlin's tongue dabs at Arthur's lips, intent, seeking permission. When he backs away, he helps Arthur out of his shirt, fingers grazing bare skin, hands frantically uncoordinated.

Arthur reaches over to touch him, skimming his hands along Merlin's thin but elegant arms while Merlin pushes his tongue deep inside Arthur's mouth. Arthur moans and surges up, returning the kiss passionately, violently. He can feel that Merlin is on board with him; he can feel his hardness. Merlin rocks down onto him, just as Arthur's fingers tangle themselves in Merlin's dark hair.

Merlin pushes him down and Arthur goes, trying not to bump his head against the bed's frame, lying flat on his back at its feet, laid out on his own costly rug. They shift; adjust.

“Merlin?” Arthur half shouts. “Do you -- now?”

“Yes,” Merlin says. And, “Yes.” His eyes become hard for a second, like flint, and then he arches over and into Arthur, lowering himself. He trails kisses down Arthur's chest, sometimes it's just his breath tickling Arthur's skin. As he goes, he laves Arthur's nipples and Arthur cups his neck, pushes him closer just as Merlin suckles a little bit like a starving newborn and a little bit like a hungry lover. Arthur's hips shoot up involuntarily as Merlin starts grazing his lips lower and lower down till he has to climb off Arthur's legs so Arthur can get out of his remaining clothing. When he does, he rises quickly, almost graceful for the first time since Arthur's first clapped eyes on him. Merlin appraises Arthur as his hand runs to the laces that keep his breeches up and fastened. He eyes the king hungrily as he stands there, flushed and aroused. Arthur is being watched; the king is being watched. The man, the one who might boast a crown but is still after all just a specimen of humankind, is being stripped. 

“Merlin, God, Merlin.” 

And Merlin slowly unfastens those laces and his breeches are hanging on his hips, slim, narrow and bony hips, by a thread. Arthur craves him like he has never craved the touch or sight of anyone else's nakedness before.

“I am one of them,” Merlin admits, just when his leggings hit the ground. He stands nude before Arthur. And Arthur should think and stop this. He should ask questions and make sense of it all before he commits to something desperate, but all he does is this: he wrests himself out of his clothes as if there is no time and he might die if he doesn't touch Merlin. He relaxes back down, trying not to be too eager or rough or discourteous, so as not to scare Merlin away. He extends a hand towards Merlin; invites him to join him.

“You would want a sorcerer?” Merlin asks. And he doesn't shift or get any nearer Arthur. “You want to have intercourse with me,” he insists, voice strained and hard, eyes flashing gold, “when you won't have the son of a dead-magic user serve you as a doctor?”

Arthur can think past his passion; he can think past his lust. It seems he can't think past the desire to give Merlin comfort. “Yes,” Arthur admits, loud and clear, because he wants, no, needs to be brave enough to be sure and decided when he betrays his father's memory.

And the answer for Merlin seems to be simple enough: he gives himself away. He gives himself to Arthur. And when Arthur has kissed him and prepared him with scented oils coming from the lands of sultans and deserts, Merlin opens his mouth but no sound comes out of it; his slack-jawed expression makes him look vulnerable. He sinks onto Arthur, inching steadily downward, worrying his bottom lip all the while. Arthur kisses his clavicle as Merlin starts to ride him, slowly, rhythmically and Arthur doesn't piston into him as he would want to. He just pushes a little and takes him so as not to hurt him. Arthur's determination is to give Merlin pleasure and watch that same pleasure work a little miracle on Merlin. Merlin lets his head drop against his chest as if he is overwhelmed. Arthur would like to watch him; watch his face crumple in an agony of pleasure. But the sight is forbidden to him, it seems. Arthur's heart is flooded with a myriad sensations some of which he is familiar with and others he's never felt.

Arthur thrusts helplessly, letting his hands roam freely, learning the shape of this body if he can't memorise the expressions Merlin's wearing now. He had touched him a little before but now he's allowed and the warmth and suppleness almost undo him. He studies Merlin, who's still looking bashfully downwards, not allowing eye-contact, lashes fluttering down as a sooty, mysterious veil His hands grip Arthur's thighs in a bruising, punishing hold.

Arthur wants to kiss him, own him and have him thoroughly, but he can't be sophisticated tonight of all nights. He can only admire Merlin's flushed torso, and his long, now bowed neck, but he can't think or calm himself enough to make this last.

Arthur's shallowly rhythmic movements make Merlin hiss and bite his lip, but overall Merlin is silent. Merlin's silent when Arthur, who's always thought of his pleasure first and foremost, wraps a hand around him, stroking him to tend to him first. Arthur growls himself as he watches, eyes tracking from Merlin's rippling stomach, to his chest to the sharp cut of his jaw and face, eclipsed as it is by his thick fringe of dark hair. It's a raw and naked moment for both of them, Arthur tugging, rubbing, trying to make Merlin shout or scream. Even cursing would be good. But apart from the hitched, almost pained quality of his breathing, Merlin chooses to say nothing. Arthur's hips meanwhile stutter, jerk, thrust forward once, twice more, rotate and then Arthur gives up; he comes, bucking up and hugging Merlin to him, fingers sliding on the sweat-drenched planes of Merlin's back.

When he comes Merlin exhales, “I've done noting wrong,” against Arthur's mouth.

 

**** 

 

It's three months since that first time and Merlin shares the king's bed at night almost regularly. It's a secret, officially. Non officially everybody knows that Merlin enjoys the king's favour just as the king enjoys Merlin's body. They're alone in Arthur's chambers, the nearest souls the two guards stationed outside before the king's door. It's very late now, so much so that the cock will crow before long. They had sex before, a slow languorous moment that had been improvised and had made Arthur feel like they were going some place. 

The fire in the fireplace is dying down, a few inefficient little bursts and the last licks of flame turn into embers. It gets colder very quickly when the window pane glazing can't keep out the draught. The cold air that hits their sweaty skin is very unpleasant and makes them shiver for the wrong reasons.

It's instinctual Arthur decides, but Merlin says, “Fyr,” and there's a merry blaze again, fostered by magic. They're lying on Arthur's unmade bed together, naked obviously, barely covered by luxurious sheets. Arthur's wrapped in one but only one of Merlin's legs is trapped under it.

Merlin freezes mid action, having betrayed himself.

“I'm just like you. What you saw... just now. I'm just like you, you know.” And the fire roaring in the fireplace and his eyes glowing gold like an alley cat's tell Arthur a different story, one that he's learned to fear and disapprove of all his life long. “How can you?” Arthur brings himself to say.

“You, of all people,” Merlin points out, “should know that I'm just as human as you. You know me: flesh and blood and everything,” Merlin says, as if he's thought about this. It's important to him, this, making himself understood. “You have my body and my company and you still... think I'm not like you or that sorcerers are outlaws who should be shunned and despised and locked away?”

Arthur rolls on his stomach, propped up on his elbows in a way that allows him to hold his head high so he can study Merlin. Merlin who's stretched on his bed, unashamed, when he once had been bashful. Shy. Now he's Arthur's and he makes no effort to conceal his body from view as he would have a few months ago.

“You have such power that it would be easy for people like you to-- ”

“Take over the world?” Merlin laughs and it's cynical and measured. 

“Not know when to stop. Take and leave nothing else for the others. For us.”

“I'm like you,” Merlin insists as, all of a sudden, he drapes himself over Arthur's back. It's a quick, feline move. Arthur tenses though the warmth and weight of Merlin over him is comfortable. Merlin's never been this aggressive before however. Merlin is gentle and accommodating, someone who smiles softly and orgasms silently. But now Merlin's kissing the nape of his neck predatorily. He buries his nose there, where Arthur's sweaty hair stick to his neck. 

“I'm just like you. I want to teach you all the ways I'm like you. Make you see them. I want you to know who I am,” Merlin whispers hotly in Arthur's ear. He starts moving, laying kisses on Arthur's spine, kneading his buttocks, caressing his arms as the fancy strikes him. Arthur's shoulders bunch up, his muscles rigid lines. It burns – Merlin's lips on the knobs of his spine, skimming down. He can feel them, half open and wet. Soft but scorching. It burns and he's afraid. 

Arthur's body is the state and Merlin's possessing it with his brazenness and his kisses and his catlike nips and licks. It burns because Arthur knows where this is headed and it makes him hard and expectant; it makes him shake. He still has some time to put a stop to this, but Merlin bites down and Arthur has almost no shame left. His fingers close around the sheets; twist them. He's breathing too fast; as if he's new at this when he isn't. But giving is different from taking. It's a different planet entirely. He's at Merlin's mercy when Merlin, who's slid lower so that his head his level with the king's arse, spreads him; starts kissing him open, a soft, unhurried touch. He draws his slippery tongue back and forth. He licks there and nibbles immediately after as if it's allowed, as if this is not profane. It's a shout from Arthur. Merlin's tongue curls and pushes inside; there where it's tender. It's wet and Arthur's heart threatens to come out of his mouth. He wants to hump the sheets, but he has some regal reserve that stops him from doing so, though he grits his teeth and starts breathing too quickly through his nose. Merlin is tonguing him, penetrating him and Arthur would never have allowed any one else. Any one else. He wants to feel it. All the more so when Merlin starts sucking or when his head dips lower and he engulfs one of Arthur's balls into his mouth, while his gentle hands caress Arthur's thighs in a calming rhythm belied by the maddening attention lavished elsewhere.

“Merlin!”

It should be degrading. It's anything but.

And Merlin works at loosening him steadily but not forcefully, using his tongue, his fingers, the oils that are always kept nearby for this kind of consumption. It's bone melting and slow going and by the time Merlin's done, Arthur's gut is molten lava and his arousal has reached extremes unforeseen before. Arthur's charged. He's bursting at the seams; he can't pull himself together any more. He doesn't want to when the tip of Merlin's cock pushes inside him, stretching him. “I'm like you,” Merlin grits out. “I'm magic but I'm like you. How do you think it makes me feel when your laws say I'm not and that I'm evil?” Arthur can feel the weight of him, the sweat-hot skin of Merlin's torso plastered to his back, and Merlin's heavy, uneven breathing through the vibrations of his rib cage. One of Merlin's hands closes on Arthur's hips, squeezing tight. 

Arthur's voice catches. “I know he was mistaken,” Arthur concedes and Merlin rocks into him. It's shallow and it hurts and burns and yet Arthur wants him to move.

“Why then? In his name?” Merlin thrusts once, hips gyrating in a way that make Arthur see stars. 

He's seated inside now and he stops once again. “I want to be myself,” Merlin says. Arthur squeezes his eyes tight shut, reviewing his beliefs at the most inopportune of moments, thinking on two different planes: his body, which is in the throes of carnal pleasure, is just being seared. And then there is his conscience. This man, who's undoing him, should have what he needs without asking for it. It is but right. Justice. Then Merlin's ramming hard, moving fast, and nothing that has gone before was exactly like this because this wild side of Merlin drives Arthur mad with a joy made of lust and love. Arthur is reacting to every thrust, every small rippling of Merlin's stomach muscles or jerk of his hips. Merlin withdraws, surges forward again and stills, fingers leaving bruises on Arthur's sides, fingernails sinking in. He stills, but not because he's reached his climax. He stops to say, in a low and husky voice, “Change them.” He covers Arthur with his body, settling on his back, breathing too fast onto Arthur's neck. Arthur can almost feel his nostrils flare from where Merlin's nose is buried. 

“Repeal them,” Merlin asks, before he pounds into Arthur, battering inside him in the most welcome of ways. Arthur hungers for his touch, for Merlin and this – this is what he wants, to be allowed to give away to someone he respects and cares for, irrespective of what happens in the bedroom.

Arthur's muscles clench and lock when he comes. He takes Merlin with him soon after. Feeling him spent and heavy and warm is a totally different experience now that he's not the one directing their sessions. Happiness swells inside him.

 

**** 

 

“The king wants to divorce Vivian,” Morgana announces; her two interlocutors stop discussing their trivial subject of choice to lend an ear.

Alvarr snorts but he does raise his glass to toast the news. “This is quite brilliant.”

“I still can't believe it,” Morgana adds, folding her arms over her chest as she paces the length of her private rooms. “He has always defended his position, but now he tells me that he has made a mistake in supporting his father's views so long after his death. He maintained that staying married to Vivian is a farce now. He said that he chose her because of Uther and because she was a partisan of the new cult. Came with father's stamp of approval,” Morgana quotes, trying to imitate the inflection of her step-brother's voice.

Morgause intercepts Morgana, and comes to stand in front of her, inclining her head and smiling indulgently. “And wasn't that what we wanted?” Morgause takes Morgana's hand between hers and squeezes it. “Isn't that what we've fought for? Did he tell you when the new laws will be passed?”

“There'll be a special parliament. The king himself wants to become the one authority over all religious matters. He swore he'd take responsibility for the late king's action and that no magic user or adept of the old religion will be persecuted any more. ”

“My Lady Morgana,” Alvarr says suavely, “You seem more upset than pleased and yet I thought you a partisan of our cause.”

Morgana blinks, her hands limp in Morgause's. “I can't believe it's over. That is all.” She smiles then, thinking the nightmare over, the long years under Uther's tyranny finally laid to rest by Arthur's decision to disavow his father's tenets. “I will no longer have to hide my powers,” she says, finally elated. “Will you teach me?” she asks of Morgause.

“Naturally,” Morgause tells her, looking at her fondly. 

Alvarr arches an eyebrow but chooses to keep silent. He marches to the table to pour himself some more wine, which he swallows quickly. “This is indeed a great day for us. I would never have thought that boy had charm enough.”

Morgause doesn't look away from Morgana, whose hands she is still clasping, but she does address Alvarr, “The boy was merely the catalyst. Pendragon has honour.” 

“Pendragon is a fool,” Alvarr chimes in, dismissing the king and his passion as a fad.

“Never undervalue your enemy,” Morgause cautions.

“Politically, I don't,” Alvarr states. “You have to admit though that he'll soon be a laughing stock. As soon as people put two and two together and understand that he's re-reformed all religious matters because of a scrawny boy, that is.”

Morgause's eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. “You should be rejoicing.” It's as though Alvarr's words have offended her. Morgana deems it might be so.

“I agree he's but a lower class boy,” she says dismissively, as only a true aristocrat would, “but a trained spy would never have moved the king.”

“I still can't root for a Pendragon,” Alvarr snorts. “Even if he does the right thing. But as you say, we should be content for now.” There is a strange undercurrent to his words. Morgause had looked serene and satisfied till Alvarr expressed his opinions. Now her eyes darken and creases appear on her brow. Her whole countenance changes and she appears both furious and dangerous. 

“And yet, take heed, my lord,” Morgause says warningly. “It's not over for you yet. You have been declared an outlaw for matters that only tangentially touch your status as a sorcerer. I'd go in hiding if I were you, for murder is murder and, however justified you might have been, you won't be pardoned.”

“In other words, you're getting rid of me, my lady? When further action is required?”

Morgause's head whirls round. “Alvarr,” she hisses, releasing Morgana.

Alvarr smiles. “I'm but a loyal follower of yours, my lady,” Alvarr says and to Morgana he sounds convincing, at least till he throws in an apparently innocuous, “Our goals have always been the same. Remember how well I know you. We agreed.”Alvarr and Morgause share a look Morgana can't interpret. He sets his drained glass back down, marches up to where Morgause and Morgana are standing, bows as a lord does before a lady of greater standing, and kisses Morgana's hand, pointedly ignoring Morgause, before stalking away, sword clanking at his side.

“Morgause?” Morgana, who feels a little in the dark, queries. 

“It's nothing, my dear,” Morgause tells her. “We ought celebrate.”

 

**** 

 

The masque is boring but Merlin is rapt by the tableaux; the cymbal music arranged by Italian masters; the ballet that follows, and the elaborate settings, which took weeks to set up. The gorgeous costumes and scenery, painted landscapes and perspective views of different fairy cities make Merlin gawk and look on stunned like a child before an elaborate puppet show. The poetry itself is high sounding and tedious; it's something classical, interspersed with instrumental music and singing. Suspension of disbelief is not helped by the fact that most of the actors involved in the court production are not professionals but amateur noblemen, wearing the costumes and reciting the lines that should transmute them into characters from myth and legend.

Merlin claps enthusiastically when the play is over and he turns to Arthur to say, “Thank you.” It's not an whimsical recompense for the pains Arthur went through to organise this, but it's heartfelt and real and Arthur's hand sneaks to clasp Merlin's for a few seconds.

They retire soon after, Arthur yawning behind the screen of his hand. Five weeks ago he rushed to the North to quell a rebellion. He's barely returned and already crowds of petitioners have lined up before his door. He's tired, sore and the poetry hasn't contributed to wake him up or put a spring in his step. He drags himself up the grand staircase on the way to his chambers and he's fully aware of the fact that he should dismiss Merlin for the night. His subjects have already had to go through so many changes: a royal divorce, a change in the official stance towards the old-religion, and Arthur doesn't want to shove this affair in their faces more than he already has. They won't know it but it was the affair that showed Arthur the way things should be.

“Can I stay?” Merlin asks. “I know you're tired and should sleep for the whole of next week but I would like to-- Can I sleep by your side?” He looks earnest, hopeful and as shy as he was on that first day at Richmond. 

Arthur is surprised. Merlin has always been the one who had to be coaxed and courted. This is the first time he's asked to share Arthur's suite of rooms without a proper invitation on the king's part. Arthur looks around, down the flight of stairs leading up to his chambers to make sure that there are no inopportune witnesses and though there are he tows Merlin up and down the hallway. He pushes him into his room eagerly and says, “Is this answer enough?”

Arthur pulls his clothes off quickly and as he changes into his night shirt Merlin starts babbling. He sits on a footstool and says, “You know I've never seen anything so beautiful or entertaining in my whole life? I mean the performance,” he adds, blushing.

“I'm not as vain as to think that you were carrying on about my stripping in front of you,” Arthur quips and enjoys Merlin's subtle flush. It reaches down his neck and past his collarbone to where he can't see.

Not waiting for a reaction to his line, Arthur pours some water in his bedside basin to wash away the stains and fatigue of the day before sinking onto his bed as if nothing had happened. As he goes about his nightly ablutions he listens to Merlin's chatter.

“When I was in Ealdor, that's my native village by the way,” Merlin explains, as if to say this is what I meant, you prat, “we never saw public performances. The village was so tiny and lost among the hills that minstrels never graced us with their presence and most of the villagers couldn't read or write so you wouldn't even get a mystery play performed.” Merlin's voice grows quieter and is pitched lower as he reminisces, a small secretive smile he must not be aware of appears on his lips as he continues, “Will and I, my best friend that was, used to play with shadows. You know when there was a hearth fire or camp-fire to be had in autumn and winter and we'd make up stuff and act it out.”

Arthur flops onto the bed and burrows under the covers. “Tell me more,” he invites, finally touching a part of his “Greensleeves” that sounds real.

“He was my only good friend. We grew up together.”

Arthur's brow furrows when he realises that Merlin is using the past tense. “What happened?”

“He died.” Merlin shrugs that off. “But anyway my childhood was a happy one. I had everything thanks to my mother.”

“You had everything but the freedom of being able to just “be” yourself.”

Merlin nods, looking at Arthur critically. “Arthur,” he begins again, after having swallowed some sort of lump in his throat. His Adam apple bobs up and down anyway; he must have been nervous. “I thank you. What you've done. Changing the laws, acknowledging the old religion. It was my dream growing up, to just be, as you said, and this reform has changed me. I--”

“The house of Pendragon took things away from you,” Arthur says, hinting at Merlin's father and what Merlin would have had if not for the ban on the old religion. “It was right. What was taken needed to be restored to you. And to all the people like you. It's common justice.” It's difficult for Arthur to admit all this and put it into words; especially now that he's tired and words get mixed-up in his brain quite a lot. “My marriage was a sham; the vows I pronounced were not real and the religion that sealed them... Its representatives are going to condemn you. Us.”

Merlin climbs into bed with him, without changing into his nightclothes, which are not kept here anyway but in the chambers Merlin was assigned months ago, and embraces him. “Arthur, there is a confession I need to make,” Merlin tells him as his arms encircle Arthur's waist. His voice is so soft, it's a lullaby. 

“Tomorrow, Merlin,” Arthur slurs. His eyes are closing and he could not pay attention if the palace was on fire. “Tomorrow.”

He falls asleep in Merlin's arms and before he's lost to the dream-world, he feels Merlin's lips brush against his temple.

 

**** 

As Arthur enters him, Merlin says, “I want you to go slow.”

He's sweaty and wide eyed, hair-plastered to his forehead, mouth sore and reddened from hours spent kissing. 

“Like this?” Arthur grunts as he slides in smoothly and very, very slowly. He has to rein himself in, but he wants to give what Merlin's asking for, though his head is spinning. Every sensation is heightened just because this is his Greensleeves.

Merlin clutches him and pulls him closer, so that Arthur's lying on top of him and so that he can bury his head in Merlin's throat. He can't thrust like this. He can only inch in a little as Merlin's hips rise and angle themselves to meet his, jarring him into a rhythm that reminds Arthur of tidal waves and water lapping on a shore. Merlin shivers but smiles and starts babbling, “Yes. This is w-- I want it like this.”

“Want me?”

Merlin laughs and the laugh becomes a moan when Arthur pushes further in. Merlin throws his head back, the tracery of delicate-looking blue veins showing on the pale skin of his neck, the tendons there taut and strained. He locks his arms around Arthur's waist, holding him close. His back arches and funnily enough Merlin sniffs him, and, realising that must come across as strange, grins. Arthur's skin tingles where Merlin's hands reach and his blood roars in his ears at sight of that self-deprecatory grin. 

Arthur props himself up so he can find some sort of leverage, one hand spread palm open over Merlin's bent knee. He thrusts, but he doesn't make it wild, although he can feel his own stomach muscles tighten and relax as he moves. He just watches as Merlin starts to groan, whimper and then ramble. “I-- I-- want to be touched like this,” he pants, guiding Arthur's hand to his groin and his untended erection. “This,” he says, “move it like this, ” he adds, showing Arthur what sort of touches and strokes he prefers. Their fingers tangle and twine and something inside Arthur snaps. It's different. This is different from the other times: Merlin is directing him, teaching him and sharing things about his body he's never chosen to communicate before. He's a quivering mass and his muscles are twitching because of the strain. The surprising factor is that Merlin is talking to him. He's being vocal, groaning and moaning lewdly, and unashamed. He's not breaking eye contact. In fact his pupils are blown and his eyes look darker, wilder, softer. He's straining forward to catch Arthur's lips between his and murmuring between nips and bites. He's cradling Arthur within his arms. “Yes, yes,” he laughs delighted and cups Arthur's face, thumbs sweeping over both his cheekbones. Arthur's heart is on the verge of breaking because he can see it. He can feel it returned.

And then everything shatters.

He's so caught in Merlin's body and in his new-found sweetness that he doesn't hear him approach: he doesn't realise there's someone else there. He finds out because Merlin suddenly looks terrified, his eyes glow gold and he manages to overpower Arthur, rolling over him while he extends an arm backward in self defence.

Arthur learns what has happened more than a few seconds later. There's a man he recognises as Alvarr in his chambers, holding a dagger meant for him. There's Merlin, who's shocked and trembling but whose body is shielding him from the naked blade held in the assassin's hand. And then there's a roaring sound, magic at work, and Alvarr is disarmed, poniard embedding itself in the wooden headboard at Merlin's command.

When the palace guards barge in, they take Alvarr into custody, but not before Alvarr has had time to spit out the whole truth.

“I'll bring you down with me,” Alvarr swears, addressing Merlin. “You have betrayed the cause.” And then the assassin's eyes meet Arthur's and he sneers. “He's one of us.” He points to Merlin. “He betrayed you as he betrayed us. He was meant to seduce you into changing the legislation against magic. He tricked you into bed with him so that you would do what you've done.” The guards blanch as they hear the words, fixing their stares on Merlin's naked body. They probably wish they hadn't heard the slur upon their king.

“To the tower,” Arthur roars, wanting to shut Alvarr up. As a result, one of the guards starts dragging Alvarr away; the man fights them off, but he's subdued for they're too many for him. Another one makes for Merlin and Arthur shouts, “Not a hand on him.”

The young guard, a youth who should still be attached to his mother's aprons, nods and salutes, though he looks confused. Arthur is the king and he won't have his orders questioned. He doesn't want to explain why he's acting the way he is. It's too personal. The guards are dismissed. Alvarr will soon meet his doom.

When they're alone again, Arthur doesn't have to ask if it's true. 

It has shattered.

But the king watches Merlin. Arthur watches him for any scrap of an answer.

“Did you ever? At any point?”

Merlin rises, stands up straight, dresses quickly even as Arthur forbears that formality and confesses. “Yes, in the end.”

And how can Arthur believe a man who's lied his way into his bed? However that may be, it's a greater blow than any other he's received while wielding a sword. “Then more's the pity,” he comments cattily. He won't let it show. This man has already had too much of him to be let into his one last secret. So he does what his father taught him when he was too young and green to understand the lesson; he shuts down and doesn't let the world touch him.

 

“I'll meet the axeman without making a scene, but I want you to know that I wasn't aware they were plotting to murder you.”

“You won't die. I won't be the one to kill you,” Arthur says, his voice as dry as desert sand.

“I don't think I deserve that,” Merlin shouts. His eyes are wet and he's a step away from crying. His face is a study in misery and Arthur doesn't know whether that misery is self-pity, or regret. Maybe Merlin does. Maybe he does now and he's mourning.

“Live. Leave the court before someone wanting to prove their loyalty to me brings me your head back on a silver platter to buy favour. Don't come back.”

“I won't,” Merlin promises. He's crying when he leaves.

And the king watches him go.

It has shattered.

 

**** 

 

She storms into the first room making up Morgause's apartments practically screaming, “I thought there'd be no bloodshed. You never mentioned killing Arthur. You said 'use Merlin!'”

Morgause is sitting in the window alcove, looking out the panes at the ornamental garden below. She doesn't turn immediately, but lets Morgana run out of words first. When she does tilt her head so that she can take in Morgana, she looks severe and menacing. “Politics and naiveté don't go hand in hand, Morgana. I thought you accepted that when you once said you hated our former king and the current one's policies.” Morgause frowns as if Morgana is the one at fault here.

Morgana is ready to let her indignation burst forth however, for she has been played, but stops when Morgause lifts a hand as if to signal her wish to speak. 

“We were granted some of our wishes. Merlin achieved that. But Arthur would not have gone all the way. He would never have supported us in full. Besides, I thought I had your loyalty, dear sister.”

Morgana freezes; blood curdles in her veins. It can't be true. There is no way.

Morgause chuckles faintly. “Uther kept too many things from you. We share a mother, Morgana. A mother who, before giving birth to you, was an adulteress and had another child with her husband's overlord.”

“What are you saying?” Morgana forces herself to ask. Her fingers grip the material of her silk gown. She'd rip it to shreds if she could, but she has been taught to behave like a lady and so won't.

“I'm saying that you're my half-sister and that Arthur Pendragon is my half-brother.”

Morgana understands. Finally the pieces fit and make a distorted and terrible picture. She feels faint, but she's always been forward; she's never hesitated to voice her opinion. She calls forth all her rage at being duped and she releases it when she says icily, “So the attempt on Arthur's life was so that you could claim the throne as Uther's daughter. Of course, once magic had been made legal again your position was reinforced. You were no longer an outlaw, and maybe you could be judged somewhat legitimate since you're older than Arthur... You used Merlin,” she spits. “You used me!” And that's what can't be forgiven. She'd believed in Morgause's affection and acceptance.

“Never. I would have favoured you, had I been queen. You'd have been the first lady in the realm. We could have made this country.”

Morgana steps back, appalled. “And you never saw fit to tell me that we were related when...” She shakes her head, feeling bitter and ashamed. “Leave court before I tell Arthur that Alvarr did not act alone.” Before she's out the door she hears Morgause say, “I love you, Morgana,” in a broken voice. She leaves the room and the court, vowing to never return. She needs to learn how to be Morgana again. She needs to find herself, away from machinations, intrigues and manipulations.

 

The End.


End file.
